


Sleep, Perchance to Dream

by miss_begonia



Category: Glee, Glee RPF
Genre: Cute, First Time, Insomnia, Kissing, M/M, On Set, Sleepy Sex, Tropes, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-19
Updated: 2012-02-19
Packaged: 2017-10-31 10:39:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/343101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_begonia/pseuds/miss_begonia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Why are you here, Darren?” Chris asks.</p>
<p>“Because I’m going to be your sleep kitten,” Darren says. “Now move, I need snacks.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleep, Perchance to Dream

“I think you should get a kitten.”  
  
Chris has no idea what’s going on right now, except that Darren is standing in his doorway wearing a t-shirt that says  _Go Blue!_ , Converse high-tops and an incredibly earnest expression on his face.  
  
“I should get a kitten?” Chris asks. “ _Why_?”  
  
“Because kittens help you sleep,” Darren explains. “They’re fluffy and they purr.”  
  
It is eleven pm on a Tuesday night and they have a six am call tomorrow morning. Chris rubs at his eyes.  
  
“Why are you here, Darren?” Chris asks.  
  
“Because I’m going to be your sleep kitten,” Darren says. “Now move, I need snacks.”  
  
*  
  
It is absolutely true that Chris doesn’t really sleep. Or – well, he sleeps, because if he didn’t he’d die, but he doesn’t sleep well, or for prolonged periods of time, or without chemical assistance. Chris’s sleep problems pre-date his currently insane life, but being an actor who works weird hours and long days and takes frequent red-eyes hasn’t helped matters. Most nights Chris pops an Ambien and turns on the TV and prays that he won’t wake up a few hours later in the middle of purchasing a commemorative platter for Lady Di or a Judy Garland boxed set. Seriously, his subconscious is even gayer than he is.  
  
Chris’s sleep woes are complicated enough without adding Darren into the mix. Darren, who apparently thinks he’s being helpful by showing up in the middle of the night and bustling around making him tea and eating all his snacks? Chris doesn’t even keep unhealthy snacks in the house because he gains weight just looking at Doritos, but Darren seems to be doing just fine. So far he’s made cinnamon toast and a plate of sliced apples slathered with peanut butter.  
  
“Are you high?” Chris asks, because it seems like a reasonable question.  
  
Darren shakes his head, mouth full of toast. “No, man, I just didn’t have any dinner. I played this gig that was – you know what? I don’t even remember where it was. That’s the kind of day it’s been. And I got there late and didn’t have time to eat and I’ve been starving for hours. Thank you for this, by the way.”  
  
“You’re welcome,” Chris says.  
  
“So I’m serious about the kitten,” Darren says. “Are you allergic?”  
  
“No,” Chris says.  
  
Chris loves cats. They’re bitchy and totally self-interested, and when they curl in your lap and purr they are so warm and perfect.  _Aw_. He misses Simon, that vicious beast.  
  
“Well, we should work on that,” Darren says. “Kittens for everyone!”  
  
“I can’t get a cat, Darren,” Chris says. “I’m never here. It would be lonely.”  
  
Darren considers this. “Well. I guess I’ll have to come over more often then.”  
  
Chris’s hand slips a little on the counter where he’s been leaning.  
  
“I like your apartment,” Darren says brightly. “It’s so homey.”  
  
Chris thinks the word Darren is looking for is “nerdy,” but whatever. He has far too much comic book and show tunes memorabilia scattered around this place, and oh, man, he really meant to take down that  _Wicked_  poster Kristen autographed for him, but sometimes he likes to go and stare at it for awhile and pet it and think about how she actually touched it with, like, her actual hands.  
  
“You look so tired,” Darren says, frowning. “You are bumming me out.”  
  
Chris blinks. “I’m fine.”  
  
“You’re not fine, though, is the thing,” Darren says. “We’ve all noticed it. You’re practically sleepwalking around the set. We just want you to rest.”  
  
“I find the fact that you are staging this sleep intervention to be incredibly ironic,” Chris says.  
  
“I know, I know, I never sleep either, but that’s because I’m crazy and overextended,” Darren says. “When I have time to sleep, I totally sleep. I sleep like I’m in a coma.”  
  
Chris avoids saying that sometimes he thinks a coma sounds nice – like for a few days or something, nothing too serious. He thinks that might worry Darren more.  
  
“Well, I was about to go to bed,” Chris says. “If I promise to go to sleep, will you go home?”  
  
“Nope, no can do,” Darren says, and begins loading his dishes into Chris’s dishwasher. “I’m going to stay here until you fall asleep.”  
  
Chris stares at Darren for a few moments before saying, “You’re serious.”  
  
“Yup,” Darren says. He wipes his hands on his pants and says, “Do you sleep in those clothes?”  
  
Chris looks down at his jeans and collared shirt, left over from a dinner date he had with Lea this evening. Like most dinner dates with Lea, it ended with him tipsy and somewhat infatuated with Jonathon Groff. Lea talks about Jon a lot.  
  
“Not usually, no,” Chris says.  
  
Darren places his hands on Chris’s shoulders and gives him what Chris imagines is supposed to be his fierce look. “Don’t make me spell this out for you, dude.”  
  
Chris can feel the heat of Darren’s hands through his shirt. He has his head cocked to one side, and his eyes are a golden-brown color that make Chris think of lions.  
  
It is possible Chris needs to sleep.  
  
“I’ll go get ready for bed,” Chris says, and Darren squeezes his shoulders and grins in that way that always makes Chris’s stomach do a ridiculous little flip.  
  
  
*  
  
When Chris returns to the living room in pajama pants and an undershirt, face washed and teeth brushed, he finds Darren asleep on his couch, arms wrapped around a throw pillow and breathing through his mouth.  
  
Chris’s heart flutters. Darren looks so relaxed in sleep, like he’s finally wound down enough to be still, to shed his obligations to entertain.  
  
Chris pads back to his bedroom and slips under the covers and stares at the ceiling until his eyelids droop. He sleeps in fits and starts, dreaming of Darren on horseback, a rescuing knight or a prince. Sometimes he’s just an equestrian, teaching Chris how to jump hurdles so he can win a race in which the prize is a kitten.  
  
*  
  
“Okay, I suck,” Darren says the next morning over breakfast of coffee and…coffee. Chris doesn’t really do breakfast.  
  
“You don’t suck,” Chris says.  
  
“I said I would help you sleep,” Darren mourns. “I completely failed my mission.”  
  
“Well, the good news is, sleeping is pretty much an every night thing,” Chris says. “Or – in my case – not sleeping.”  
  
Darren’s face brightens. “Oh, awesome, then I can come over tonight? Excellent.”  
  
Okay, that was not exactly what—  
  
“I will for sure stay awake tonight,” Darren says. “We’ll play  _Halo_  or watch movies or maybe, like, both, and I’ll make hot chocolate and—”  
  
“Darren, you don’t—” Chris starts to say, but Darren’s phone rings and he glances down and says, “Oh, sorry, dude, I have to take this,” and just like that the conversation is over.  
  
*  
  
“Did you tell Darren to try to help me sleep?” Chris asks Lea in the make-up trailer a few hours later. Her eyelashes are unbelievably long and curly today. Chris is jealous.  
  
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lea says, waving him away with one hand. “Darren is sleeping with you?”  
  
The hairdresser on the other side of the trailer coughs.  
  
“He’s not sleeping with me, he’s—” Chris stops. “I don’t even know what he’s doing. He’s like a self-appointed behavioral sleep specialist.”  
  
“So what is sleep therapy according to Doctor Darren?” Lea asks. “Because I just read a very authoritative study on how orgasms are a great cure for insomnia.”  
  
Chris’s brain whites out a bit. “Y-you did not.”  
  
“No, I didn’t,” Lea says, tweaking Chris’s nose. “But you wish I did.”  
  
“I hate you,” Chris says.  
  
“You say that all the time,” Lea says. “It’s lost its power.”  
  
*  
  
That night he and Darren watch  _Aladdin_  on Chris’s couch and Chris definitely does not think about orgasms.  
  
“So what do you think about?” Darren asks. “I mean, what’s keeping you up at night?”  
  
Chris is momentarily flummoxed by this question. Are he and Darren these kind of friends now? Because up until Darren started inviting himself over for sleepovers, they were more like workplace buddies – always joking around on set, getting along fine but never close. On days off Darren is always busy with some gig or he’s flying to New York or doing stuff for Starkid or out with his many, many other friends. Darren has a lot of friends. Chris basically has his co-workers, which, not that he’s complaining, because he loves them a lot, but his social sphere is much less…global than Darren’s.  
  
“Um,” Chris says. “I don’t know. A lot of stuff. It depends on the day, I guess.”  
  
“Whatever’s sticking with you, huh? Whatever you can’t let go.”  
  
Darren has nice hands, Chris notices. Chris doesn’t know why he’s never noticed that before, especially since Darren has definitely touched him with those hands. Chris spends a lot of time trying not to notice things about Darren, though.  
  
“You’re so quiet,” Darren observes. An alarmed look spreads over his face. “Oh, no, I’m messing up your alone time, aren’t I? Your time to decompress? I can leave, I don’t have to—”  
  
“No, it’s okay,” Chris says, because it is okay. He likes having Darren here. This apartment feels so empty sometimes, especially in the middle of the night when he’s taken a few of the little blue pills and everything is blurry and untouchable but not quite gone yet. Those are the moments when Chris’s control freakishness kicks in and he panics and fights the drugs and ends up half-awake and buying random shit online.  
  
“New movie!” Darren exclaims, and reaches across Chris for the remote. He accidentally brushes Chris’s stomach with his knuckles, and Chris tenses.  
  
“Oh, shit, man, are you ticklish?” Darren says.  
  
 _Motherfucker_ , Chris thinks.  
  
Which is how they end up on the floor together, a snarl of limbs, Darren holding Chris’s wrists above his head while Chris writhes and curses underneath him.  
  
“This—is—so—gay,” Chris manages between gasps.   
  
Darren’s eyes are filled with mischief and his fingers are filled with evil.  
  
“Oh, I care so much about that, too,” Darren says. “Fuck, how will my hetero image ever recover?”  
  
“I am going to kill you,” Chris says.  
  
“I’m going to tire you out,” Darren says, and Chris’s breath catches on the exhale.  
  
*  
  
Chris wakes up some hours later on the couch, Darren twisted around him like Saran wrap. He’s overheated and he has a cramp in his thigh, but he can feel Darren breathing on the back of his neck, and he really does not want to move.  
  
So he doesn’t.  
  
*  
  
They almost miss work the next morning. The only reason they make it mostly on time is that Ashley calls.   
  
Her ringtone is Rebecca Black’s “Friday.” Chris will do anything to make that shit stop, which is exactly why she chose it.   
  
When his phone buzzes with  _Fridaaay, Fridaaay, Fridaaay_ , he awakes with a start and falls off the couch, which is an excellent and efficient way to achieve full consciousness. Darren growls and blinks his eyes open, looking confused.  
  
“Goddammit, Ash,” Chris groans into the phone.  
  
“Are you awake?” Ashley says. “How are you not awake? You’re always awake!”  
  
“I was asleep,” Chris says.  
  
“New meds?”  
  
Darren’s still re-orienting himself, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand. His hair is flat on one side and curly on the other, and Chris has to physically restrain himself to keep from trying to smooth it out.  
  
He stumbles to his feet and goes into his bedroom and shuts the door a bit more forcefully than he intended to.  
  
“Darren is here,” Chris says.  
  
There is a pause on the other end.  
  
“Well,” Ashley says. “I need details. Graphic ones.”  
  
“It’s not like that,” Chris says.  
  
“You would be the only person in the world to sleep with Darren Criss and actually sleep with him,” Ashley says, sounding disgusted.  
  
“He’s straight!” Chris says. Why are all his friends mentally ill?  
  
“Oh, yeah, and Lea and Jon have never had threesomes,” Ashley says. “Please.”  
  
“Jon and Lea have had threesomes?” Chris yelps. “With who?”  
  
“You’re going to be late,” Ashley says. “Just FYI. So go get your handsome hetero slumber buddy to put on his clothes and get down here.”  
  
“He’s still wearing all his clothes,” Chris says. “I think.”  
  
“Ugh,” Ashley says. “Lame.”  
  
*  
  
Turns out Chris manages to avoid Darren all day because Darren is off doing some Warbler thing. Chris has a McKinley scene where he’s about as relevant as the furniture, so he sits in the back and fingercombs his hair and tries to care about the fact that Chord’s light is weird and Mark can’t say his line with a straight face.  
  
 _DETAILS, COLFER_ , Ashley texts him during a shooting break.   
  
He doesn’t know where she is, but he is not about to go find her just so she can grill him.   
  
 _Come and get ‘em, lazybones_ , he texts back.   
  
Less than a minute later Ashley appears. She’s munching on a donut and offers him an extra (never, Chris will never eat that) with a solicitous smile.  
  
“So what have you been up to, handsome?” Ashley asks. “Because I have a feeling something went dzown last night.”  
  
“Darren is trying to help me with my insomnia,” Chris explains.  
  
“And by ‘help you with your insomnia’ you obviously mean ‘screw you sleepy,’ right?” Ashley says.  
  
Chris blushes to the color of the hateful red pants wardrobe has saddled him with today.   
  
“No. And I don’t know why everyone thinks this is the case because it’s  _not_.”  
  
“Maybe because it’s not exactly normal for two guys who are not in a romantic relationship to share a bed?” Ashley postulates. “Just a thought.”  
  
“We’re not sharing a bed, he’s—”  
  
Chris realizes saying that he and Darren spent last night pressed up against each other on his narrow couch will probably not help his argument.  
  
“Whatever,” Chris sighs.  
  
“I think you need to figure out Darren’s endgame,” Ashley says. “Is he going to live with you for the rest of your life? Because insomnia is not a short-term problem. Darren is not stupid. He must have plans.”  
  
Chris knows for a fact that Darren is quite brilliant, no matter how much he might try to mask it with his goofy sense of humor. He notices everything, too. Chris will never forget the day they shot the kissing scenes and Darren said,  _I know by take six you’re going to start expecting it, but you’ve got to look surprised every time, just like I’ve got to pretend I’m making the decision to go for it right then and there_.   
  
On take six when Darren pushed into the kiss, Chris’s hand fluttered like his heartbeat, total shock. That was the take they ended up using.   
  
Chris didn’t need to fake anything.  
  
“Chris,” Ashley says softly, grasping his wrist. “I’m sure Darren means well, okay?”  
  
“Yeah,” Chris says, his voice hoarse. “Yeah.”  
  
*  
  
Chris doesn’t see Darren for the rest of the day. When he finally wraps his last scene with the New Directions, he wanders around the set for a few minutes trying to look casual. He doesn’t find Darren anywhere.  
  
“I think he left,” Lea tells him as she re-applies lip gloss, even though Chris was being totally subtle and covert like the CIA operative he clearly was in a past life.  
  
“Who?” Chris asks innocently.  
  
“He said something about having a show,” Lea says, ignoring him. “I wouldn’t wait up.”  
  
Chris feels a hollow sort of disappointment settle in his stomach. Ashley was right. He can’t allow himself to get used to this.  
  
Amber invites him to come out with her and Mark and Cory for drinks, but suddenly Chris wants nothing more than to be alone. He declines with an apologetic smile, pleading exhaustion.  
  
At home he dumps his bag on the couch and turns the TV on to some Real Housewives marathon (he thinks it’s NYC – that evil woman is telling some other woman off about not having pinot gris at her party) and swallows his pills with Diet Coke. This is perhaps not the most efficient way to get to sleep, but whatever. Chris has a diversity of addictions.  
  
He manages to make it to his bedroom by the time the Ambien starts to kick in, his limbs becoming heavy and his movements slowing. He collapses in his bed and burrows under the covers and spends a few minutes wondering if Darren got scared off or if he’s just somewhere doing crazy, over-excited Darren-type things.   
  
Then the world melts away and he passes out.  
  
He wakes when he feels his bed dip beneath someone’s weight. He knows he should be alarmed, but the meds are strong and they make him feel floaty and fearless.  
  
“Chris?” he hears, and feels a hand, warm and strong, touch his knee through the covers and squeeze.  
  
“Darren?” Chris asks, his voice high. His heartbeat goes erratic, and he clutches at the sheets.  
  
“Yeah, I’m – hey, I’m sorry,” Darren says. “Sorry I’m so late. I went out – I did this gig, right, and they kept giving me drinks, and I’m not good at limit-setting, it’s a character flaw, I know—“  
  
“You’re drunk,” Chris murmurs. “You’re drunk and in my bed.”  
  
“Technically I’m  _on_  your bed,” Darren says. “Though it does look lovely.”  
  
“I hope you didn’t drive,” Chris says, his mom instincts kicking in.  
  
“No, no, I got driven – there was this nice driver, super-nice. He was telling me about his kids, and how they like music, and it was so—”  
  
“Did you break in or something?” Chris asks. “Because that’s kind of scary, and also sort of hot.”  
  
This is why Chris can’t be around people when he takes sleeping pills. They make him all…unfiltered.  
  
“Lea gave me a key a few days ago,” Darren says.  
  
Of course she did. Chris smothers a groan.  
  
“M’coming up,” Darren says, and suddenly he’s sliding in next to Chris, all clumsy limbs and loose movements.  
  
“Hope you don’t mind,” Darren slurs.  
  
Chris doesn’t mind much of anything right now, to be honest. He certainly doesn’t mind having a gorgeous, pliant boy who smells like sweet cologne and tequila in his bed.  
  
See? No filters.  
  
Darren pets Chris’s shoulder softly, a gentle  _I’m here I’m here_  gesture, and Chris falls asleep to the sound of his steady breathing.  
  
*  
  
Chris is having the most delicious dream. He’s kissing a boy with dark, curly hair, hair that Chris can tangle his fingers in, all soft and slippery. The boy is moving against him, grinding slow, and he’s warm and moaning as Chris thrusts his tongue in—  
  
“Mmmph,” Chris hears, and his eyes flicker open to find—  
  
 _Oh God_.  
  
Darren has one leg over Chris’s, pressing their bodies together, and his mouth is buried in the crook of Chris’s neck. Chris can taste tequila on his own lips, and  _oh sweet holy mother of Christ_.  
  
“Darren,” Chris breathes. His throat is scratchy and his voice sounds like someone else’s.  
  
Darren makes a muffled sound against Chris’s neck. Chris shudders.  
  
“Darren,” he tries again. “Darren, dammit—”  
  
Darren draws back, looking sleepy and adorable. Chris is still shaking off the meds. He feels as blurry as Darren looks.  
  
“Oh,” Darren says, suddenly seeming to register that he and Chris are basically humping each other on the bed. “I’m sorry, did I—”  
  
“No, you—”  
  
“I don’t know why I’m in your bed right now,” Darren says. “I feel like I should know that. Shit.”  
  
Chris attempts to extricate himself from the clumsy embrace they’re in. When he moves his leg, Darren’s breath hitches. Fuck, Chris is pretty sure Darren was hard against his hip.  
  
“You came here after your show,” Chris says. “You were kind of – well –“  
  
“I was drunk,” Darren says, the realization dawning. “I was drunk and I climbed into bed with you.”  
  
Chris can only stare at him. Darren brings his hands up to his face and rubs at his eyelids. There is now a good eighteen inches between them on the bed.  _Thank goodness_.  
  
“I am so sorry, Chris,” Darren says, voice quiet. “I shouldn’t have done that. I’ve been such an asshole, invading your personal space like this. I don’t know why I thought I could just come into your house and your life and…I don’t even know. Solve your problems?”  
  
"Is that what this was about?" Chris asks. "You wanted to solve my problems?"  
  
Darren sighs, running a hand through his mass of curls, and Chris has a momentary flash of what it felt like in his dream to do that. He flushes.  
  
"I just feel like...you should be happy," Darren says. "And you don't seem happy to me, man. I mean - sometimes you do. But sometimes you show up on set in the morning and you look wrecked. I thought if I could connect the dots – if I could figure out what happens to you when you go home at night – then maybe I could help."  
  
Chris doesn't know how to tell Darren the truth - that in spite of everything, the sudden fame and fortune, the movie/TV/book deals, the awards and banquet dinners…at the end of the day, Chris goes to bed alone.  
  
There is something sad about that, and Chris doesn't know how to change it.  
  
"Do you want to talk about it?" Darren asks. "I know I babble on like an idiot, but I can listen, too. I'm pretty good at it sometimes."  
  
Maybe it's the darkness of the room, or the fact that he can still feel Darren's heat and smell his light cologne, but Chris wants to tell Darren everything.  
  
"I've slept alone for twenty-one years," Chris says softly. "Sometimes I get tired of it."  
  
Darren blinks a few times, and then his features soften into a smile.  
  
"Do you have any idea," Darren says, "how many people would gladly share this bed with you?"  
  
Chris is no idiot, and he's no virgin either. He's had boys in this bed, and other places too - hotel rooms, their apartments, even on set. Not all the time, or anything – his schedule is too crazy for that – but enough.   
  
Still, there's a difference between sex and sharing a bed. There's a difference between fucking someone and wanting to spend the night with them.  
  
"It's not that," Chris says. "It's not sex, it's..."  
  
Darren places a hand on Chris's arm, and Chris stops talking.  
  
"I get it," Darren says. "It's about wanting to sleep with someone you want to wake up with in the morning."  
  
Chris wishes, sometimes, that Darren wasn’t so perceptive. It would make it easier to not want to be closer to him _all the time_.  
  
“Aw,  _man_ ,” Darren says, and Chris’s eyes flick up to meet his gaze. “You look so tragic right now. That is the saddest face in the history of sad faces.”  
  
Chris’s mouth quirks at one corner, unbidden.   
  
“That’s better,” Darren murmurs.  
  
Darren reaches out and traces the edge of Chris’s lips with one finger, and Chris’s eyes widen.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Darren says, retracting his hand. “I didn’t mean—”  
  
“You know everyone thinks we’re fucking, right?” Chris blurts out before he can stop himself.  
  
Darren’s eyes go from large to giant. “I – uh—”  
  
Chris just looks at Darren for a moment, at Darren’s ridiculously earnest face and sleep hair and pouty mouth, and for the first time he can remember, he really wants to kiss him.  
  
“ _Everyone_  thinks we’re fucking?”  
  
“You’ve been spending the night at my house for, like, a week,” Chris says. “What are they supposed to think?”  
  
“But I wasn’t—” Darren stops. “Oh God.”  
  
“What ‘Oh God’?” Chris asks, alarmed.  
  
“I’m a tease,” Darren says, as if this is a monumental discovery akin to creating penicillin.  
  
Chris begins to laugh.  
  
“But I don’t mean to be a tease!” Darren says, agitated. “If I was going to try to get into your pants, I’d  _ask_ , you know? I wouldn’t creep around your apartment for a week under the guise of sleep therapy. I’d be direct about it.”  
  
Chris’s laugh gets caught in his throat. He coughs.  
  
“If you were going to try to get into my pants?” Chris says faintly.  
  
Darren starts to say something, and then stops and blushes.   
  
Chris is pretty sure he’s never seen Darren blush.  
  
“Is that a possibility you’ve considered?” Chris asks.  
  
Darren blinks at him, slowly.  
  
“I – yeah, maybe?” Darren says. “But I never thought that you...”  
  
Chris feels dizzy, and he knows this time it has nothing to do with the meds.   
  
Is Darren actually saying--  
  
“You never thought that I might want to get into  _your_  pants?” Chris asks. “Why, because you’re so ugly and lacking in talent and charm?”  
  
“You’re not an easy guy to read, Colfer,” Darren huffs. “You’re like a gay Mona Lisa or something.”  
  
Darren looks kind of pissed off when Chris starts laughing at him again, but come  _on_.  
  
When Chris finally recovers his ability to speak, he manages, “So to sum up: you didn’t start randomly sleeping over because you wanted to be friends with benefits.”  
  
“I did want our friendship to have benefits!” Darren insists. “But not of the knocking boots variety.”  
  
“I can’t believe you just said  _knocking boots_ ,” Chris says, and he is dangerously close to losing it yet again.  
  
“My intentions were pure, okay?” Darren says. “Jesus, you’re a hardass.”  
  
“But your intentions—“  
  
“—haven’t always been pure,” Darren says. “Yes. Okay. That is also true.”  
  
Darren’s eyes sweep down to Chris’s lips. Chris recognizes the look in Darren’s eyes – it was the look he gave him when they first shot the kissing scenes, after the first take. Darren’s eyes had been hot, his cheeks pink, and he’d looked away when Chris tried to meet his gaze.   
  
Chris had thought Darren was acting, but now he’s not so sure.  
  
“You have helped me sleep, you know,” Chris says, struggling to keep his voice even.  
  
“I’m glad,” Darren says.  
  
 _There are other ways you could help me more_ , Chris thinks, but he doesn’t say it. He doesn’t need to. He’s pretty sure Darren can read it all in his eyes.  
  
“Do you always make out with people while you sleep,” Darren says softly, “or was I a special case?”  
  
Chris flushes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”  
  
“Don’t apologize,” Darren says, mouth twitching. “That was an awesome way to wake up.”  
  
“Was it really?” Chris asks.  
  
“Yeah,” Darren says. “I like waking up with you.”  
  
This time when Darren reaches for Chris’s face, he doesn’t pull back. Instead, he strokes one hand over Chris’s cheek, palm settling along his neck.  
  
“I like waking up with you too,” Chris murmurs.   
  
God, Darren’s hand feels good there, so warm and soft.  
  
“Good,” Darren says softly. “Because I think I could get used to it.”  
  
He tilts Chris’s chin up with one finger and leans in, brushing his lips over Chris’s in a wisp of a kiss.  
  
Chris’s eyelids flutter.   
  
“Is this you being direct?” Chris says, breathless. “Because that seemed kind of like a feint to me.”  
  
Darren’s mouth curls at the corner.  
  
“That was a fencing metaphor,” Darren says. “You, my friend, are a nerd.”  
  
Chris is about to protest (though really, who is he to argue with undeniable fact?) but this time when Darren leans in the kiss is deeper, longer, pressure and tip of the tongue, fireworks exploding behind Chris’s eyelids.  
  
They are both breathing unevenly when they separate.  
  
“Okay, so, my intentions just got a lot less honorable,” Darren says. “Just so you know.”  
  
“I wouldn’t mind if we did less sleeping together,” Chris says.  
  
“Less sleeping, more—”  
  
“Not sleeping,” Chris says, very quickly. “More not sleeping and more making out.”  
  
“I like this plan,” Darren says, shifting so their legs are pressed against each other, one of his hands drifting down to grasp Chris’s hip.   
  
“We’ll sleep when we’re dead,” Chris says, and pulls him in.


End file.
